I stand, taunting the line between security and longing like a tightrope walker,

Moments from falling into the deadly grips of hope.

It ensnares me,

This irrational flower of reassurance,

Whispering that I am of value,

That I am cared about,

By those whom I call friends.

But if that were true,

Then why am I still alone,

In the cold, blinding spotlight,

Waiting, begging for someone to applaud.

Waiting for a rose,

To be thrown at my feet.

I’ve never gotten thorns, either.

But I think, that I would rather be scorned than ignored.

You all have better places to be.

Which is fine.

I’ll still be here,

At my one man circus,

Only crying over what I can control.

Because though I may claim,

To have grace and sophistication,

While tempting my loneliness,

We all know that I’m the only clown here.